


Immortalize You

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Art Galleries, Bisexual Ororo Munroe, Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, Emma is a Professional Artist, F/F, Femslash, Frequent Nudity, Gay Emma Frost, Girls Kissing Girls, Nipple Play, Oil Massages, Ororo is a Wealthy Widow, Painting, mild angst and feels, otpprompts, the author is a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Taken from the Tumblr prompt, “Imagine that Person A is a vampire (that has no reflection) who has been alive for thousands/hundreds of years and they meet Person B who is an artist, and Person B decides to draw Person A's portrait and Person A is all flustered and emotional because it's beautiful and they finally get to see themselves after so long.”Emma Frost. Talented. Jaded. A stunning success in the world of fine art.Surely she’s seen it all, she figures, until she meets a charming stranger at her art exhibit.





	Immortalize You

**Author's Note:**

> There needs to be more Emma/Ororo. Fan art, fanfiction, playlists, mood boards, you name it; I want it. I love this pairing SO much.

“I love the use of space. It’s just… I can’t describe it.”

“There’s not much to it.”

“There doesn’t have to be. It flows. It just _flows_. I’m not leaving without it.”

“It’s not exactly a bargain.”

Emma was interrupted from her sip of iced matcha by the shrewd-looking woman in glasses with Chanel frames and Vivienne Westwood heels (last season’s), and she smiled back, pretending that she hadn’t heard the exchange. Her husband’s smile was assessing, his eyes sweeping furtively over Emma and filling her with revulsion.

“How much for ‘Ennuis and Reflection’?”

The piece’s name sounded pretentious when Emma heard someone else say it aloud, but there was no going back, now. “Three-five,” she told her without hesitation. “The delivery is free if you purchase the frame.”

The woman’s husband’s glimmer of a smile was replaced by a look of naked shock. “It doesn’t _come_ with the frame for that price?”

“Ask my framer,” Emma told him. As though Emma summoned her, a gamine brunette dressed in various blues and purples materialized by Emma’s side.

“It’s a steal for that price. That frame is pewter,” she told her. “Lately, it’s a thing. Pewter’s making it’s way back.”

“Pewter.” Emma’s customer looked reverent. Emma saw the wheels turning, knew she was picturing candle parties in her home, or something just as gauche, explaining the work’s appeal and how much of a steal it was, how it only made sense to get in on the antique, classic look of pewter before the rest of the riff-raff.

Kitty toyed with her necklace, a gold pendant shaped like a peacock, with sapphires for feathers. “Artwork is an investment,” she urged.

Bingo. Magic words.

Emma and Kitty managed to finagle a second purchase from the couple, frame and all, when the woman insisted that there wasn’t much else in Emma’s collection that could _possibly_ work with the furnishings in her second living room. Emma loved a challenge. By the time they completed the transaction, the ice in Emma’s matcha had melted, diluting it brew to a clear, runny green.

She handed it to Kitty brusquely. “Toss this, would you?”

“Want something stronger?”

“When we get home. We’re cracking open that bottle of pinot as soon as I get out of these shoes.” The Loboutins pinched Emma’s little toe, but she would never regret them.

“They have butter cookies at the guest table.”

“Knock yourself out. I’m not doing carbs.”

“Because, of course you’re not. Whaddever.” Emma wanted to resent her work partner for her ability to simply sneeze and lose three pounds as she hustled off to the guest tables of tiny, polite finger foods that could be cradled in cocktail napkins. Guests were swarming the tables and sipping on overpriced wine. Kitty mingled and didn’t hurry back. Emma approved the giant of a man she was chatting with, broad-shouldered with sharp bone structure that she itched to draw, but judging by the posture Kitty adopted, coy, interested, and leaning in toward him to better hang on his every word, Emma knew her offer to have him model for him would be met with a savage counter offer from Kitten to fuck off.

Emma worked the room, strolling slowly through the gallery, listening in on comments about each piece, answering questions, schooling her face into serene lines in the wake of sticker shocked replies. _Yes, that’s the price. Yes, I’m worth it. This isn’t the swap meet down the road. Those aren’t dogs playing poker._

An older gentleman gave her backhanded compliments. “In my day, a pretty girl like you wasn’t an artist. Art was a man’s game. You’re a work of art, yourself.”

“They were doing art back before the meteor hit?” 

“Pardon?”

“There are some nice Klimt prints in the gift shop,” Emma told him with a dismissive wave. Her pale blue eyes were hard. She _really_ wanted that wine. He gave her a strange look and wandered off.

 

Emma felt the presence by her arm before she heard the low, smooth feminine voice. “There were cave paintings, back then. Would those count?”

“Pardon?” Emma turned to face that voice, and her mouth went dry at the sight of that _face._ She had to look _up_ slightly to stare into dark, sapphire blue eyes with long, curling lashes and arched white brows. 

“When the meteor hit.” Full, soft lips glossed in raisin lipstick lifted slightly at the corners. “In his day, a man like him wouldn’t have exerted that much effort, dear. He’d have simply clubbed you over the head and dragged you off by your hair.”

“Horrible image.”

“Sorry.”

“No. It’s… it’s apt.” Emma watched the woman’s smile spread another notch, and she found herself responding in kind. “I didn’t notice you show up earlier. Are you arriving late…?”

“Better late than never, I hope.”

“A lot of the best pieces are gone.” Emma nodded to the small, pink “SOLD” cards that the gallery staff were tucking into the edge of the frames of those works.

“None of those are what I had in mind.”

“There isn’t much time left to browse. Er… unless you’d like me to show you?”

The woman threaded a slender, unnaturally cool hand through the crook of Emma’s arm, grazing the pit of her elbow with her fingertip. Emma shivered at the light touch and the twinkle in those amazing eyes. Her hair was wrapped up in a scarf, but Emma saw her widow’s peak from the edge of the fine silk, white as her brows, and she longed to see all of those tresses in their full glory, how it would look against that dark, gleaming skin.

“Lead the way, madam.”

And Emma ignored most the other patrons as she gave her new guest her full attention, explaining her inspiration each time Ororo - such an unusual name, which rolled off the tongue, didn’t it? - asked her, but she spoke about each piece more elaborately, giving her own answers more consideration. There was something about Ororo that made Emma rethink her own work, and her reasons for creating it.

“That one is so… poignant.” Ororo tugged Emma toward one of her smaller paintings, rendered in oil using soft, cool tones, of a young girl staring plaintively out a window. “And so sad.” Her thumb stroked Emma’s skin. “Look at her sweet face. She misses somebody special.”

Emma’s throat wanted to close up, and her voice wavered with her reply. “Yes. She does. I painted that after my brother, Chris, passed away.”

Ororo’s mouth formed a small ‘O’ of apology. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to touch a sore spot. It’s… your work is beautiful. It makes me feel things that I haven’t in a long time.”

“That’s just what I like to hear. And what I like to do.” They two of them stared at the painting for a few moments more.

“I’ll take it,” Ororo murmured. “Do you take black card?”

“I… yes. Of course.”

The side of Ororo’s breast brushed the back of Emma’s upper arm as she drew closer, and her fingers were still rubbing it fondly. The contact was… comfortable. “I’m enjoying your exhibit. Do you display here often?”

“This is my third show at this gallery.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you come here often?”

“I will, now.”

“Wait here.” Emma reluctantly slipped away, already feeling bereft of her touch, and she went to the guest booth and picked up a program with the gallery’s schedule and calendar. She returned to Ororo and handed it to her, along with a minimalist, black business card printed in white lettering. When Ororo held out her hand, she pressed the card into her palm and took the liberty of curling Ororo’s fingers around it. Ororo smiled down at their joined hands. “I have a few other pieces that I’m displaying tomorrow. It might be nice if we got together, after. The exhibit closes at eleven. Perhaps we could grab a late bite.”

“Or a drink,” Ororo suggested easily. “I’m open to that.”

Emma released her and handed her the program as well before clearing her throat. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she hadn’t fallen back on since she outgrew her training bra and got her braces off her teeth. “Then I hope I see you again tomorrow night.”

“Where do I pay for the painting?”

“There’s Kitty. My assistant. She’ll take your card number and arrange the delivery.”

“I can’t wait.” She peered down at the card before slipping it into her purse. “Emma.”

She left Emma to circulate amongst her guests once more. Emma followed Ororo with her eyes through the crowd while she followed Kitty to the transaction machine and ledger. She watched her assistant chatter with her, briefly overhearing her say _Oh, my God, I love that one. Great choice,_ before the card reader spit out the curl of receipt. Emma got stuck with a chatty customer who showed a strong interest in one of Emma’s still life works, and by the time she managed to break free, Ororo had disappeared.

Emma touched her arm where Ororo’s hand had rested. What a time to realize how much she’d needed it…

*

 

Ororo appeared the following night. Late, again. And dressed in sheer, black silk. This time, she kept her hair pinned up in a simple chignon, covered by a wide-brimmed, black hat with black netting that shrouded her exquisite face. A few gawkers stared as she strolled past. Emma smirked when she watched an older, pompous country club owner who informed her that her cityscape painting was a bit “contrived for the price” took one look at Ororo and dropped the shrimp from his mini-skewer before it reached his mouth.

“Good evening, darling.”

“Just in time.” Emma turned her inner wrist up, checking the time on her slim wristwatch. “Ten minutes til we close up for the night.”

“Unfashionably late, then.”

“You’re still my favorite customer.” Before Emma could lower her hand, Ororo took it and kept her palm turned up, then slowly raised it to her lips. 

Emma’s pulse tripled, and a hot flush traveled over her skin.

“I’ll make it up to you. Champagne? At Trini’s?” It was a dark, highbrow bar for the white collar crowd uptown. Ororo wouldn’t be overdressed for it, and Emma liked that they would be likely to get a quiet table. 

“Perfect. I love their pinot.”

Ororo waited patiently off to the side, eyes following Emma around the gallery as the rest of the patrons gradually filed out. Emma sold two more paintings and some of her prints, and Kitty hovered Ororo where she sat on the concrete bench, legs crossed. She casually swung one Loboutin-shod foot while the friendly brunette grinned down at her, unleashing a tide of questions.

“I’ve never seen you around until yesterday! Do you collect much art? What’s your favorite style? What did you think of the exhibit? And I love your hat. Is it Karl Lagerfeld?”

“I know. Occasionally. Impressionism. Amazing. Thank you. And, yes.”

“Sorry. I know I’m running on. I do that when I’m tired.” Yet Kitty’s brown eyes were still wide and alert, shining with interest as she stared at Ororo. “You and Emma are going out tonight?”

“For a nightcap.”

“Oh, my God. Buy her two. Buy her _ten_. That woman needs to unwind. She’s been fretting about this exhibit and practically shitting bricks for the past month-”

“Excuse me,” Emma interrupted as she approached. She tsked, but Ororo giggled, shaking her head.

“So. You need to unwind?”

“That’s the word on the street.”

“You two crazy kids have fun,” Kitty teased. She reached out and touched the netting on Ororo’s hat. “I still love this. Okay. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Nice seeing you again, Kitten,” Ororo called after her as she rushed off.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Emma muttered. “Whoever coined that phrase must have gotten cornered by my assistant for an hour.”

“No. She’s charming. And she means well.” Ororo rose and held out her hand to Emma, and Emma felt a small frisson of excitement in her gut when she took it.

*

 

They walked to Trini’s, even though it was far enough away that a taxi wouldn’t be unwelcome. But Emma enjoyed the cool night air and the opportunity to hold Ororo’s hand, listening to the steady cadence of her footsteps against the pavement, watching their shadows moving in sync. Passerby watched them enviously, and every eye in the room swung in Ororo’s direction when they reached the wine bar and let the maitre’d check their IDs. He pulled out both of their chairs, and Ororo unpinned her hat and set it on the other empty seat. Emma saw the long, graceful line of her neck and her small, well-shaped ears. Her features were symmetrical and soft, her cheekbones were high and sculpted, and she had the high, smooth forehead of a poet. Ororo was breathtaking.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m… sorry. It’s… I know, it’s tacky. I can’t help it. You’re...I can’t stop looking at you.”

“Oh. That’s sweet.” Ororo’s lips curled and her eyes flitted down to the tablecloth. 

“I’m not kidding. You look amazing.”

“Flatterer.” She looked pleased, almost bashful with the praise.

“I don’t… always do this? Um… this isn’t typical. I only just met you.”

“I know. I got that impression that this might be… out of character. But, I don’t mind. Not at all.”

Emma searched for something else to say, wondering why she felt so tongue-tied. But Ororo saved the moment. 

“Let’s get you that glass of pinot. You deserve it.” Ororo waved down the maitre’d, who hurried over as though he was at her beck and call for the rest of the night.

And he was. The man fawned over both women, not letting either of them reach the bottom of their flutes before he topped them off. Ororo asked for a vintage and year that Emma wasn’t familiar with after Emma inquired what else was good besides the pinot. Their server looked impressed and brought it out with a flourish.

“Wonderful choice. You know your wines.”

“I’ve been enjoying them for a long time.” He beamed at her as he poured.

As the wine bubbled in Emma’s veins, warming her, she opened up, and she talked with Ororo about _everything_. College. Boarding school. Her brother’s illness. Her horrible sisters. The year that her father disowned her. Seventh grade field hockey. Her first crush.

“I used to write his name in my Lisa Frank notebooks. Along with lots of bad poetry. I kissed him at the freshman homecoming dance. That was the night I found out I liked girls.”

Ororo’s polite giggle had evolved throughout the night to a full-bodied guffaw. “Bless your heart. That was a rude awakening.”

“But once my eyes were opened, I never turned back.”

Ororo sipped her cabernet. “When did you first fall in love?”

“My second year at Brown. With a psychology major.” Emma smiled fondly. “Jean. Horrible taste in music. Even worse taste in women…”

“Don’t.”

Emma sighed. “Sorry.”

“Emma.”

Emma wanted to blame the alcohol. And sink into the floor.

“Emma. Look at me.” Ororo’s hand reached for hers and gentle squeezed it. “Don’t measure yourself with someone else’s yard stick. She wasn’t the one. And that’s all right. There’s no sense in looking back.” Ororo turned their hands until she could lace her fingers together with Emma’s, and Emma’s pulse raced again. She wondered if Ororo could hear her heart pounding from across the table. “You might miss what’s right in front of you.”

Emma flushed. She tightened her grip and stroked Ororo’s hand with the tip of her thumb. Her skin was cool and so soft.

“I won’t do that.”

*

They caught a cab to Emma’s apartment, because Emma couldn’t walk straight by her fourth glass of pinot, and because she craved the contact with Ororo, pressed close in the back of the car, draining hot, urgent kisses from her mouth.

They tipped the driver generously, and he watched them smugly as they stumbled - Emma stumbled, while Ororo guided her - up the front steps. Emma led her to the front concierge desk to sign her in, and her favorite guard, Logan, winked at them as they got into the elevator. Emma winked back.

Ororo and Emma leaned back against the rail as the elevator ascended, silently counting each floor number light up on the panel above the doors. Emma gave Ororo a bleary smile, and Ororo stroked a knuckle down her cheek. Emma giggled.

“What?”

“You. You’re a work of art,” Emma told her.

“You’re very drunk.”

“Yes, you am.”

They burst into giggles. Ororo leaned in and gave Emma a tiny peck. They settled back against the wall, and Emma stared at her own hazy reflection in the mirrored wall.

It didn’t strike her as unusual that Ororo’s wasn’t keeping it company.

*

 

Ororo’s hat found a safe perch on Emma’s kitchen counter. Two pairs of high heels rested by the locked door. Two delicate dresses lay pooled on the floor beside Emma’s four-poster bed. Two Victoria’s Secret bras draped over the alarm clock, dimming its garish red, digital display in the dark. 

“Where did you get this little scar?” Ororo mused, kissing Emma’s thigh as she rolled down her pantyhose.

“Scraped my leg on a rock when my family was vacationing by a river. Adrienne dared me to jump off a boulder down into the water. I didn’t jump far enough out from the face of the rock. Dinged it pretty good.”

“Awwwww.” Ororo’s moue of pity traveled over Emma’s skin, giving her little thrills. She stood between Emma’s spread thighs, scraping Emma’s hair back from her face before she leaned down to kiss her. “I’ll make it better.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart, Emma.” Those cool palms cupped Emma’s hot cheeks. “Promise.”

She spent the rest of the night making good on it, her long, lush white hair tenting their faces as they kissed, once Emma unpinned it.

*

 

Ororo was gone just before dawn. Emma rolled over with a groan, hating the cold, empty space on the other side of the bed. Despite her splitting headache, her body felt lax and well-used. She glanced at the clock, tossing her abandoned bra onto the floor. That was when she saw the little note.

_I’m going to take you to a late supper. Tito’s. A little after eight._

_You taste like strawberries._

Emma smirked. All right, then.

*

 

Ororo barely tasted her consomme at Tito’s, but she didn’t eschew the wine. Emma devoured her shrimp salad with a hearty appetite. 

“Someone’s hungry.”

“Someone helped me burn off a lot of calories.”

Ororo’s bashful smile returned.

Ororo turned out to be widowed. Her husband had owned a securities firm. Ororo was still the majority stockholder and a member of the board, but she left the management of it to her sister-in-law, Shuri. They had been a well-traveled couple and they owed properties everywhere. Ororo’s townhouse felt too big without him, she told Emma.

“I wanted a little artwork to brighten it up. Give it a little character.”

“And you came to my showing?” Emma’s mind reeled. “You could have bought yourself anything. And you came to _my_ exhibit.”

“Because I like your vision. And how you see the world.”

They went back to Emma’s apartment, and Emma was no less tipsy. But Ororo’s reflection was still hiding from her in the elevator wall.

Ororo undressed her slowly and worshipped Emma from head to toe. She dismissed the mystery as unimportant. Worth solving another night.

*

 

She was always gone before dawn. Emma pretended it didn’t hurt.

*

Until she couldn’t.

A month of near-perfect nights drifted by. Kitty asked after Ororo constantly, without an ounce of subtlety,

“When are you gonna bring her out with all of us, one of these nights?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, make room on your calendar. Pencil Piotr and I in, sometime. God, I hardly see you in the daytime, lately! When did you stop being a morning person?”

Emma rearranged her schedule so that she didn’t have to meet with any of her clients until noon, or later. She saved gym visits for the evenings, right after she returned from the studio. Ororo preferred to meet late at night, which was fine, except…

Ororo’s text message arrived when Emma stepped out of the shower. _Where would you like to go tonight?_

Emma texted back, _I think I need a change of scenery._ She steeled herself. _Would it be all right if we went to your place? I still haven’t seen it._

The text bubble pulsed on the tiny phone screen. For longer than Emma was comfortable seeing.

Then, _All right. I will send a car for you._

Emma wondered how she could feel apprehensive and giddy at the same time. She dried her hair and rifled through her closet for her favorite sleeveless, white silk dress. By the time the car arrived for her out front, she was full of jitters. The car… Emma’s mouth gaped at the shining, black Rolls-Royce. The driver got out promptly and opened her door. Emma had been expecting a taxi.

“This was unexpected.”

“Miss Munroe wasn’t certain if you would prefer this, or the Benz.”

“Oh, this isn’t ostentatious at _all_.”

He simply beamed and drove them to the suburbs. The homes grew further apart as they drove out past the country club that Emma decided not to join, and then into the estates. When they entered the iron gates, Emma murmured, “I thought she said it was a townhouse.”

“Code word for ‘McMansion,’” he joked back. “It’s got a nice view from the back patio. She just had the Jacuzzi retiled.”

“Oh, Good Lord…”

“A word of advice? She’s anxious. She’s been worrying all day about having you here. She doesn’t have many guests.”

“Oh. That’s… I know. Sorry. It’s… we’ve spent so much time at my place, which is fine. I just want to get to know her better.”

“She doesn’t let many people in.”

“I can see why.”

“She’s a good woman. Isn’t another one like her in the world.”

Emma wondered if she was getting a shovel talk.

“I know that.”

“Take off your shoes at the front door. White carpet. Just had it installed.”

He helped her out of the car, escorted her to the front door, and rang the intercom. “Miss Frost is here.”

“Fancy,” Emma mused. And she wasn’t gauche; her own parents came from money, but they didn’t come from _this_. The lawns and shrubs were manicured and meticulous. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle tickled Emma’s nose. The driver returned to the car and exited the circular driveway, leaving Emma to her date. She heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and Emma waited breathlessly until the door opened.

Ororo greeted her with a nervous smile and reached up to smooth her hair. “You made it.”

“You… sent for me. But, it was a near thing,” Emma teased. “This is… wow.”

“Do you like it?” There was so much uncertainty in Ororo’s voice, and Emma was shocked to hear her sound almost… unhinged.

“What? Ororo. It’s, it’s beautiful.” Emma chuckled and shook her head. “You said it was a townhouse! Hey, do you want me to take my shoes off-”

Ororo closed the gap between them and pulled Emma against her, molding her hands to Emma’s waist and kissing her with so much heat that she forgot her own _name_. Emma clung to her, arms winding around Ororo’s neck. They came up for air, foreheads touching.

“So. You like it?” Ororo’s voice still sounded unsure, but she was smiling.

“I love it. Give me the tour.” Emma stepped out of her shoes, and they padded through each room in bare feet, fingers intertwined. Emma perused the bookshelves, well stocked with fiction, some of them hardcovers. Some first editions. Some of them, antiques. There were framed photographs of T’Challa. They must have been a stunning couple, even though she didn’t see any pictures of the two of them together, and Emma fought down a wave of jealousy. “He’s handsome,” she told her.

“Don’t think he didn’t know it,” Ororo agreed, but her voice was fond. “He was sweet. He was my best friend.”

“How long were you married?”

“Only five years.”

“Neither of you wanted children?”

Ororo’s smile faltered, and she turned away, hugging herself.

“Oh, God. I’m… sorry. I keep… I keep saying the wrong thing.”

“No. It’s all right. It’s right to ask me questions.”

“I haven’t had much of a track record so far of picking the right ones.”

“Emma, it’s okay.” And Ororo’s smile was sad. They wandered through the house, and there a few more photos of her husband on a collage frame in the hall.

Then, they came to Ororo’s bedroom. It was enormous. The king-sized canopied bed had a thick, brocade duvet and was covered in decorative throw pillows. It looked inviting, but Emma wanted more of the tour. There were two framed photos, black and white portraits of a man and a woman. The woman shared Ororo’s features, but not her stunning coloring. The man had her smile and bone structure and had a beautiful smile.

“Were these taken in one of those old timey Victorian photo stands at a theme park?” Emma asked.

“Well. No.”

“No? Were they done at a studio?” Emma studied them. They were sepia, fading beautifully but still in good condition. “These are your parents, right?”

“Yes.” Ororo was hedging.

Why was she hedging?

“Sooooo…”

“Those were taken right after they got married.”

“I bet. So. Studio?”

“No. That was their living room.”

“Oh.”

“In New York.”

“Nice.”

“In… 1887.”

“What?”

Ororo sighed. “1887.”

Emma opened her mouth, then closed it. “But. That. Can’t. Be right.”

“Oh. It can.”

“Ororo. Surely you’re joking? You’re pulling my leg.”

“I… no.” Ororo folded her arms behind her back and rocked on her heels. “It’s a long story.”

“Were they just… _old_ when they had you?” Emma chuckled, but her mind was reeling. 

“No. My mother was twenty when she had me.”

“No. She couldn’t have been…”

“I’m not as young as I look.”

“Ororo…”

“I need you to see something.”

Ororo took Emma’s hand and led her to the bathroom. It was spacious, too, and the lights were turned off. “If this is unsettling, and if it’s too much for you to handle, I won’t pressure you to stay, Emma. I can call my driver, and he can take you home.”

“Ororo, I don’t… I just got here. I don’t want to leave, yet. What’s wrong? Why are you so nervous?”

“This is so hard to explain. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to explain this to someone. God, Emma…” She reluctantly let go of her hand, walked into the bathroom, and flicked on the light. “Look.”

“Look at what?”

“Look.” Ororo nodded to the vanity mirror.

“It’s nice. Looks new, did you just replace it?”

“Look again.”

“Okay. I don’t know. Why. You.” Emma stared into the mirror. It was large, spanning the length of the vanity, which had double sinks. “What…?” Emma saw her shocked expression, and noticed that she’d gone a little pale, despite her careful attention to her makeup. That was her white dress, and her long, wheat blonde hair brushing her shoulders. Her hand shook as her fingertips grazed the glass. It felt solid and cool to the touch. That was her reflection, without a doubt.

But Ororo’s was missing. While she stood right beside Emma, real. Anxious. Tangible.

“ _How_ am I not _seeing_ you?”

“I think you know why.”

“I’d… I’d really prefer it if you told me. In your own words.”

Ororo sighed. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

“No. Don’t say that. Don’t say you’re sorry. There’s nothing to apologize for if you’re honest with m-”

“I’m a vampire.”

“Oh. All right, then.”

The gold-flecked tile rushed up at Emma, and she tumbled into blessed oblivion.

 

*

Emma woke up in Ororo’s bed, with the duvet pulled up to her chin and a cool rag over her forehead. Ororo hovered over her anxiously. 

“Have you been crying?” Emma croaked.

“No,” she lied. Ororo’s eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

“When were you planning to tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you planning to eat me?”

“What? No!” Ororo looked horrified. “God, no! Emma, that’s not… _no_.”

“So, how do you…”

“Blood bank. Or, once in a while, I’ll pay someone to come in.”

“Oh, God. Like takeout delivery,” Emma moaned. “That’s just… we’re not having this conversation.”

“You probably think I’m a monster.”

Emma didn’t know what to say. She removed the cloth from her face and wadded it up, and Ororo took it from her. “Think about how this looks from where I’m standing. I haven’t dated in _months._ We’re talking _huge_ dry spell. And the first nice girl who comes along into my life is a _total_ night owl, _gorgeous_ , and makes my toes curl in bed. And she’s a vampire.”

“I can call my driver to take you home if you-”

“Don’t. Put that phone down.”

Ororo set the phone back down on the dresser. And she fidgeted.

“You don’t go out during the day.”

“Not. Really. I have to cover up and stay inside during the peak hours.”

“You don’t eat food.”

“Not solids.”

“You drink blood. Everyday?”

“About three times a week.”

“And you have f-fangs.”

Ororo knelt by the side of the bed, tipped her head back slightly, and opened her mouth. On cue, her canine teeth lengthened and tapered into sharp, gleaming points.

“Oh, God. Those are fangs.”

Ororo retracted them and looked self-conscious. “I only use them to drink. They… freak some people out.”

“They’re not… so bad.”

“You’re freaking out.”

“A little. But.” Emma sat up in bed. “T’Challa. He knew?”

“Yes.”

“So. No kids.”

“He said he’d live with it.” And Ororo’s eyes misted over, so full of regret. “He loved me so much.”

Emma sat all the way up and rolled back the covers, swinging her feet to the floor. She reached for Ororo and tugged her between her spread thighs, heedless of how her dress had rucked up.

Emma sighed. “He isn’t the only one.”

Ororo’s eyes filled with disbelief. “Emma, you don’t have t-”

“You know good wine. You have a _magic_ mouth. And it’s killing me every time you leave my bed before dawn.” Ororo’s chin quivered, and she glanced away, embarrassed, but Emma stroked her cheek, turning her face to look at her again.  “I want to wake up to you. Every morning. Or every night, damn it! You make me feel things. You make me see things about myself.” Ororo shook her head, but Emma nodded. “So many things. And I already deleted my Match profile and told my sister Cordelia I want her to visit so she can meet you. Are you all right with that?” Emma gave her a teasing smile, but her eyes were wet.

Ororo nodded dumbly. “I can work around it.”

“She likes wine, too.”

“All right.”

“So, we’re fine?”

“I’m still a vampire.”

“But, we’re fine?”

“Emma-”

“I love you.”

Ororo allowed Emma to kiss her, long and hard, before they made short work of each other’s clothes.

*

 

Emma went through Ororo’s scrapbooks the next day while Ororo slept. All of the curtains were drawn, and Emma had the books spread out across the duvet. The albums were old. There were so many old photographs of Ororo as a child. Wearing dresses with smocking and ruffles. Then eventually, with sailor collars. Pinafores. Flapper fringe, once she was grown. Emma wondered when she was turned. There were so many different styles of clothing that she wore over the years. Ororo was a fashionista in every decade.

Emma ran out of pictures. In the last ones, Ororo’s parents were elderly and frail. Ororo wasn’t in those.

Emma stared down at her lover, still curled under the duvet, her long hair spilling over the pillows, achingly beautiful.

It was an injustice that she couldn’t see the beauty that Emma saw. One that needed to be remedied.

*

 

Emma had Kitty clear her calendar for the next two weeks. She packed her rolling suitcase generously and stood imperiously at Ororo’s doorstep once the taxi pulled away. Ororo answered her impatient knock, squinting due to the earliness of the hour (four PM), but she accepted Emma’s kiss as she pushed her way inside.

“What is all that?” Emma brought in a second case that turned out to be a folding art caddy full of pencils, charcoals, pastels, paint tubes and brushes.

“Let’s head to your bedroom and find out. Kitty’s going to drop off a couple of other things from my studio, later, too. I have a couple of screens and a lamp that I want to use-”

“For what?” Ororo frowned in confusion.

“To capture you.”

“Pardon?”

“To show you what I see when I look at you.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I was looking through your scrapbooks. It was enlightening. Thank you for trusting me with them. And for letting me see the woman you used to be.”

“I miss that version of me. It’s… hard.”

“You can’t see yourself.”

“No reflection.”

“Then I’ll be your mirror. And your camera. You’re beautiful. And I want to paint you.”

Ororo actually blushed. She shook her head, but she was smiling.

“That’s… Emma. That’s _ridiculous._ You don’t have to go to the trouble!”

“It’s not trouble. I want… I want this. Just, please let me do this? It might be fun. We can play dress-up? Or, we can play un-dress-up?”

Ororo smirked, and a snort of laughter escaped her.

“Made you snort.”

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Indulge me. Since I love you.”

Those words made Ororo melt. “I knew my life would change when you came into it.” She caressed Emma’s cheek, cradling it. “You can paint me. If it’s what you really want.”

 

True to Emma’s word, Kitty came by around seven (Ororo was more presentable and alert, by then), and she set up Emma’s studio lights and a narrow folding screen in Ororo’s bedroom. “You didn’t tell me your girlfriend lived in a Good Housekeeping spread,” she quipped. “Might have to have a barbecue here this summer!” Kitty wasn’t above soliciting an invitation, or creating one.

“Perhaps not in the afternoon. Because of the heat,” Ororo told her.

“YAY!” Kitty clapped her hands and gave her a lock-jawed smile of glee. “Yessssssss. Sounds great. Okay. I’m gonna split. You two behave.” And she waggled her eyebrows on the way out.

“Right. So. Get naked.”

“Goddess, you’re so blunt.”

 

But Emma behaved herself and let Ororo strip down while she moved the lights where she wanted them, and she turned down the covers on the bed, rumpling them slightly, and she rearranged the pillows. “I’ll be right back.” She trotted to the dining room and snatched a few of the flowers out of her table centerpiece, shaking the water off the stems.

“Those look like my flowers.”

“Props. Okay. And let’s do a couple of other things.” Emma laid the flowers on the side table and leaned over Ororo where she sat on the bed. She unpinned Ororo’s chignon, smirking as she watched her hair uncoil and spread itself, billowing into soft, tousled waves. Emma ruffled it slightly, mussing it to let loose strands and tendrils fall down around her face. “Do you have any oil?”

“Any… particular kind?”

“Just something that you use to keep your skin soft. Or, even just simple cooking oil.”

“Er… okay. I have some almond oil in the bathroom.”

“Good.” Emma fetched it and came back, lips curling in anticipation. “Your skin is perfect. But I’m going to shine it up a bit.”

“Oh.” Ororo’s eyes gleamed with understanding. 

“Oh, indeed. I want to capture those gorgeous curves of yours. Find those areas of light.” Emma uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount into her palm. She rubbed them together and told her, “Lean back.” Ororo obeyed, watching her with a combination of blatant interest and lust. Emma rubbed it over her shoulders and upper arms, enjoying the sensation of the slick oil sliding over her perfect skin. Ororo hummed in pleasure at the caresses and the warmth of her hands.

“That feels nice. Why haven’t we done this before?”

“It won’t be the last time.”

“Then, continue.”

Emma drizzled more oil into her hand and smoothed it over her forearms, and her throat, pausing to kiss her. She dribbled some down her collarbones, and then caressed her breasts, slicking it over the generous slopes and peaks. “There we go. I want light there, too. Just enough to draw the eye to it, and remind me why I like to put my mouth there.” Ororo moaned and closed her eyes at the sensation, and her legs fell slack, spreading open as she leaned back on the heels of her hands.

“If you keep this up, I won’t let you draw me.”

“Patience.” But Emma continued to massage and rub her breasts, hefting their soft weight in her palms. Her large, dark nipples grew ruched and hard as pebbles. “Let me get your belly.”

“Don’t make that shiny! You’ll make me look pot-bellied!” Ororo broke out of her haze of arousal to laugh at Emma. 

“No. Sensuous. With curves. Like a goddess. Tall. With round, broad shoulders and a waist that I want to wrap my arms around. And those thighs that I want you to wrap around _me_. Those muscular, beautiful, dancer’s thighs.” Emma smoothed oil over her belly, tickling the dip of her navel, spreading it over her thighs and kneading the muscles, letting her thumb stroke her inner thigh. It made Ororo shiver.

“Emma…”

“I’m not finished.”

Emma was kneeling between her knees, and she leaned in and nipped Ororo’s ribcage. “You’re going to be so much fun to paint.” And she coated her fingertips in oil, sliding them over the line of Ororo’s groin, along the edge of her mound, teasing it.

“ _Emma!_ ”

Her oiled thumb gently moved under the soft hood of her sex and stroked the tender, sensitive pearl. Ororo’s hips bucked, and the sounds coming from her mouth were breathy and desperate. Her head tipped back, making her long white waves of hair dust the sheets behind her, and Emma felt her own heart pounding at the control Ororo gave her over her pleasure. 

“That’s how I want to see you.”

“Please.” Her voice was a thick husk. “Oh, please.” Emma circled her sweet spot slowly and leaned down to suckle her left nipple. Emma hummed into her flesh as she toyed with her, and suddenly the art became secondary.

She wanted Ororo to come. 

Touching Ororo was making her hot, but this was about Ororo’s pleasure and earning that _look_. The glazed eyes and the soft flush blooming over all that gorgeous skin. The lax smile that was all for her. The looseness of her limbs and her boneless sprawl. The languid way she touched Emma when it was done, and the way she stared into her eyes and stroked her fingers through her hair. Emma wanted it all, before she rendered a single line on the canvas. Her hand sped up its efforts, increasing the sweet heat and friction, and Ororo’s hand came up to clutch Emma’s head to her chest as she moved her way to her opposite breast, devouring it. 

“Come for me.”

“Oh, Goddess! Oh…” Her voice tapered into a moan of need. Her nails lightly scratched Emma’s scalp and she tugged on her hair, making it smart enough for Emma to groan into her flesh. The tip of her tongue lapped at her nipple, spiraling around it in time with her hand, and Ororo’s hips were moving, breathing quickening as she neared the edge. “Emma… _Emma!_ Please… oh, God!” 

Multiple deities. Emma prided herself on a job well done.

She shattered, broken cries mingling with gasps that made her breasts rise and fall heavily. She huffed to catch her breath, and she collapsed back into the mattress, dazed. Spent.

Perfect.

“That’s how I want you. Just ease back into the pillows.” Ororo could barely move. Emma propped a few of them under her head, upper back and her arms. “Just let those hands relax. Let that leg bend, nice and soft. Look at you. That’s what I like.”

“I might fall asleep…”

“Not yet.”

But Ororo watched Emma through drowsy eyes as she set up her easel, sat down, and sent her pencil scratching over the canvas. She watched Ororo, hand moving and capturing what her eyes saw. Those curves. Negative space created by the cream-colored sheets showing between the bends and crooks of her dark limbs. The line of her neck. Her hair where it spilled over her shoulders and breasts, sprayed across the pillows.

“I’m glad you don’t get cold. I’m going to keep you like this for a long time.”

“I don’t mind.”

Sapphire blue eyes with impossibly long, curling lashes. Her slightly turned-up nose, long and graceful. Plump lips made to be kissed. She looked like a woman who had been well-loved. Worshipped. 

Emma’s pencil trapped her on canvas, with lines, curves and shadows. With smudges of her fingertips to recreate her contours. And with pools of chalk to place light where it belonged. Emma worked until her eyes burned from exhaustion, and Ororo maintained her pose, never moving a muscle with the exception of slow, sleepy blinks. 

“Normally, I’d feel wide awake by now.”

“What’s that like? Always being a night owl?”

“Lonely.”

Emma made a sympathetic sound as she picked out a few more details of Ororo’s hands. “We’re almost done for tonight.”

“No paint yet?”

“Not yet. I will when you’re fresh. And when I am.”

“I want to see it. I can’t wait for you to finish it.”

“We’re doing this again tomorrow night. With all of the same preparations.”

Ororo beamed. “All right.”

*

 

Emma slowly adapted to Ororo’s sleeping schedule. She took breakfast at noon, and she tried to act casual when Ororo’s “delivery” showed up. Only from the blood bank, this time, small, neat IV bags of O positive. Emma wondered if it was compatibility that mattered, or just a preference of vintage. At least it wasn’t a “trusted source” showing up in person, to Emma’s relief.

They wiled away the nights much like the first, until Emma obtained the shadows and curves she wanted, rendered in soft, ocher and umber hues. Sometimes, they started with wine. Sometimes, they bathed together to alleviate the stiffness in Emma’s neck and shoulder muscles that happened when she painted on more involved projects. There was always slow lovemaking, before Emma began painting and after, once her brushes were cleaned with turpentine and put away. 

Emma never wanted to finish the canvas. She felt bereft when she placed the last soft highlight in Ororo’s eyes and stood back. “Done.”

“Goodie!” Ororo sat up and clasped her hands. “Can I see it?” 

“You’ve been a good girl and haven’t been peeking?”

“I promise.”

“Come here.” Ororo pulled her favorite short nightshirt over her head and tugged her hair into a scrunchie and joined Emma by the painting. “I tried to do this thing with your hair… it’s really curly, so it’s tricky to get the details-” Ororo rounded the easel and gazed down at the painting, and she went silent. “Uh. So. What. Do you think? Is it all right?”

Ororo’s hand fluttered over her mouth. Her eyes glittered and Emma heard her intake of breath.

“Ororo? I-I can change it, if you want...you don’t like it. Oh, God. This was a bad idea, wasn’t it?” Panic filled Emma’s chest, but Ororo shook her head.

“No,” she murmured. “Emma.”

“Is it okay?”

She nodded emphatically. “Yes.” Her voice was a hoarse croak, and a tear slipped down her cheek, dripping from her jaw. “Emma. I love it.” Ororo tugged Emma away from the canvas, since she was beginning to look distraught, and Ororo knew she’d made her panic and wanted to remedy it, quickly. “That’s how you see me?”

Emma nodded, sniffling, because she felt… so _overwhelmed_. “Yes. I can’t do you justice, but that’s what I see when I look at you. That’s how you move me when I see you, and when I’m with you.” She caressed Ororo’s cheek, and Ororo leaned into the touch. She gave Emma a watery smile.

“I haven’t… I haven’t seen myself in so long. I know it’s silly, but…”

“It’s not.”

“It is, it is!” Ororo wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and then she embraced Emma tightly. “I love you so much. Thank you. You’ve given me back something that I didn’t know I needed. It’s… this is everything.”

“I want to do it again. Every year, if you let me.” Ororo sniffled again, but she huffed a laugh into Emma’s hair. “I want to make up for the years that you lost in photos. Memories. I want you to have memories.”

“I want to make them with you.”

 

*

 

They held an evening wedding a few months later, in Ororo’s garden. Emma painted Ororo every year on their anniversary, and she eventually sketched both of them from memory in front of different landscapes inspired by the all the places they traveled. Emma sold prints of the first painting, and they sold like hot cakes. The painting hung in the bedroom, beside Ororo’s vanity. 

Emma was the only mirror she needed.


End file.
